Jonathan Broughton: The Russian White: A Victorian Thriller

Peter sat on his stool in the corridor smoking his pipe. She felt reassured that he was still there, but considered his guarding skills woefully inadequate. Had he forgotten that she was up there, or had the proprietor bribed him to keep quiet? It didn’t matter, at least he hadn’t given her away. He smiled as she approached.

“Which way did those men go?” she whispered.

“They go there.” He pointed to a door at the end of the hallway. The sign read “Strawberry Fields,” written in a scrawling gothic hand. Good, they had gone into one of the upstairs snugs. It gave her more time to reach home before William arrived, but not enough time to waste. She made for the stairs at the other end of the hallway.

The Club’s back door opened onto a dark alley. A light drizzle made the cobbles slippery. She gasped when a drunk suddenly started singing at the top of his voice. She could barely see him, slumped against the wall, but as she passed, he lurched forward and grabbed at her ankles. She hit his hands away, and he toppled over and fell flat on his face.

She hurried out of the dark and into the lights of Old Compton Street. A line of carriages waited beside the pavement in front of the Club, and she picked out William’s. She ran past it towards Piccadilly and the hansom cabs waiting for fares. She opened the door of the first one.

“Where to Miss?” called down the cabbie from his box-seat.

“Regent Park Crescent. Number One.”

The carriage lurched and bumped as the horse moved out into the road, and then settled into a steady rolling sway as they picked up speed.

Her body trembled. The Russian White. In London—in Regents Park Crescent? Impossible! Her brother? The Brotherhood—keeping the diamond secret and safe. They knew about the Russian agents. They knew they were smuggled into England. Did they know about Peter? Did William know about The Classical Beauties? Did William know that she performed with them? That James brought the Russians into London under the guise of stagehands working on the show? Or was it ill-luck that had brought him to the Club that night, and chance that she had overheard The Brotherhood’s meeting?

Where did William keep the diamond? In his study? It had to be. If she found it she would take it straight to James. She wished he was here now. Imagine his look of disbelief and wonder. No – she mustn’t think that. If she didn’t find it tonight, nothing would change.

The cab turned into Regents Park Crescent and pulled up at the front door. She paid the fare and watched it trundle away.

Earlier, she heard William dismiss the staff, something he often did on his nights out. She had retired to her room after dinner, revelling in the secret delight that she too would be going out, but that nobody would know.

She slipped into the alleyway beside the house, and down the steps into the area. The back door was bolted, but the larder window was on the catch. The vegetables and perishables inside stayed fresher for longer.

She eased her hand through the narrow gap to release the hook that lowered the window. She had discovered this secret way of leaving and entering the house as a child, and no one had ever found out.

She pushed herself up onto the narrow ledge that ran parallel with the sill, and wriggled her way through the window. The shelves that lined the larder made for perfect steps for climbing, though care was needed not to knock over any of their contents.

She pushed the window back and secured the catch, and then tip-toed to the larder door. Not a sound in the house, and she darted up the stairs to her bedroom.

She sat on the bed for five minutes, and listened for the servants. Satisfied that she would be left undisturbed, she crept out of the bedroom, and hurried along the landing to William’s study, on the same floor as her bedroom, but on the other side of the house.

She turned the handle and the study door clicked open.

An oil lamp burned low on his desk. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Now that she was here, she found it hard to concentrate. Could The Russian White really be in the study? It seemed ridiculous, preposterous! She reminded herself that she hadn’t imagined that overheard conversation. William, her brother, had The Russian White, and she might find it tonight. A thrill of nervous expectation tingled up and down her spine.

Try the most obvious places first. She lifted down her father’s portrait that hung over the mantelpiece. It covered William’s safe. A combination lock secured the metal door.

Once, when William had been away, she had spent the whole day nosing through his study, and had found the combination number on a business card left by the firm who installed the safe. Well, she thought, if he was careless about keeping the number secret, then she had no guilt in opening the safe to have a look inside. Her find had been disappointing, a small pile of papers, a deed, various trusts, old wills, nothing of much interest.

She turned the dial. A small click confirmed her excellent memory as each digit lined up under the arrow etched into the small panel over the dial. Eight, five, six, seven and two. The metal door swung open.

In the dim light, the contents looked much the same as she remembered. She stretched her fingers into the farthest corners of the metal box, to make sure that nothing was missed, but the diamond wasn’t there.

She closed the safe, spun the dial, replaced the picture, and then crossed to the window to check for William’s return. There was no sign of his carriage, though the rain poured down and streaked the glass with running drops.

Now where? Behind the books that lined the walls? It would take too long to search through them all. At the back of the drinks cabinet? Not very secret, or safe.

In his desk? She sat in William’s soft leather chair. Five drawers lined each side of the desk and their brass handles gleamed in the dull light. She opened the drawers, one at a time, and slid them right out to peer into their shadowy interiors.

Pens and blotters, odd bits of stationery, papers that related to his factories, nothing more. The bottom drawer on the right hand side needed both hands to open, but, like the others, just odd scraps, nothing significant and she pushed it back and wondered where to try next. But the drawer jammed. She tried again; still stuck. She knelt down and eased it open. Something caught at the back which scraped the wood as she pushed. She reached inside.

The bottom of the drawer sat at an angle to the wooden base, and as she pushed on it with her fingers, it tipped sideways, to reveal a second compartment underneath.

She hadn’t found this secret place the last time she looked. A wooden box filled this new space. She took it in both hands to lift it out; it didn’t move. She tried again, and the drawer rattled up and down on its runners. She ran her fingers over its surface and they brushed across a hard metal edge. A keyhole? It needed a key, and she looked round the room as if she expected, in her excitement, to see it materialise in front of her.

On the desk top, clustered together on the left hand side, stood miniatures of the family, painted when the children were young.

Mother, Father, William, her sister Sylvia, and herself. The romantic style idealised the innocence of childhood and overlooked the way children really behaved. She didn’t recognise her portrait at all, even allowing for artistic license.

She gazed at her father, and remembered the man behind the image. He had never recovered from the shock when she ran away from home on the eve of her eighteenth birthday. He died during her absence, and William blamed her for his premature death. Didn’t she realise the impact of the scandal heaped on the family by her wilful and unexplained flight? The Hunts supplied the main topic of gossipy chit-chat. Speculation circulated the salons of polite society. Newspapers filled whole column inches with tittle-tattle and conjecture as to Isobel’s whereabouts, and her possible activities.